So, my younger brother comes over and fixes the doors on my car. PLUS..
Then he starts to lecture me on how 'I just don't want to work' and how I NEED to go out to the local school district and apply as a substitute teacher. (Apparently, he's (a.) forgotten that the problem with my legs hurts so much, and episodes occur out of the blue ofter enough that I keep Vicodin around to deal with the pain, and (b.) that this - 'me supposedly not wanting to work' - wasn't such a big deal from 1999 to 2006, when our parents were still alive and (especially in the case of my father) needed 24/7 supervision, couldn't really afford it and (in the case of my father) was such a pain that no one else in the family could or would set their lives aside to come in and act as caretaker. (You cannot divine the depths of jerkitude my father could descend to. The local senior citizens agency that provided him with part-time caretakers informed him that they would no longer do so - after he'd gone through seven or eight - because 'he was too hard on the workers.' I could tell you stories. Just use your imagination.) It's okay for me to have a disfiguring, painful condition when it benefits all others concerned in that you can't manage to escape your surroundings and are basically stuck with the short straw... but when I'm no longer needed to take care of the bastard - pull yourself up by your own bootlaces! You know you can - and by the way, you need to think about getting someone in your life, too! MINUS in negative numbers.
I got an agent based on my latest screenplay. PLUS.
In the script coverage I had done on the script, they liked the script but had some serious problems in terms of the placement of a couple of plot points. Also, the reader wasn't too crazy about the morals and ethics of the main character, but liked the original tone of the characters and the overall concept. They said I need to cut the page length and ease up on the descriptive tone, but really liked the romance in the script and the ending. They even liked the jokes, specifically mentioning how the set-ups paid off well. Nevertheless, they graded it as a 'pass' - but specifically said that rewrites could make this into a quality script. PLUS.
I hate working with kids - especially teenage kids - who don't want to learn, who aren't motivated and are dedicated to the concept of remaining unmotivated and ignorant. If you've caught any of my chapters of Legion of Lawndale Heroes (the excellent Daria/Legion of Super-Heroes crossover fic started in 2005 on the Sheep's Fluff Message Board by the Daria fanfic writer Roentgen) and read up on the character of Colonel Armalin, you might pick that attitude up. Maybe. Minus.
I hate the idea that people want you to assimilate into the social strata and become 'one of the group'. Okay, kiddies...
"Strength is irrelevant. Resistance is futile. We wish to improve ourselves. We will add your biological and technological distinctiveness to our own. Your culture will adapt to service ours."
That's science fiction. I like being an individual and going on my own path, and I have no desire to lemming off a cliff because YOU say 'that's what's best for me.' HOW THE FRAK WOULD YOU KNOW? Do what's best for yourself, and make recommendations for others... oh, I can't stand this part of the 'starving artist' program. You know, the 'poor and in a bit of pain' part. It allows the baseline-normals to think they're superior to you and bitch-slap you around verbally. They're not aware of a wonderful Hollywood maxim that almost everyone in the industry knows: 'Be careful of the toes you step on today - they may be attached to the ass you'll be kissing tomorrow.' The average person doesn't think like that... which is why they beg, cry and plead like stck pigs when the blisteringly unpleasant concept known as 'payback' is brought to their attention in a particularly heinous manner.
Yes, I like money, sex and walking down the street without having oh-so-powerful individuals with their $50-60,000+ jobs for Caterpillar, the hospitals and the city or the state looking down their noses at me. - but we must relearn walking before we get back to bedroom acrobatics. The nukes from orbit will come later.
It all balances out. Have a nice day.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
This week just SUCKS!
It really did - talk about a waste out of my life - there goes five days I'll never get back!
Why? Never mind - it just sucks. However, in the spirit of what truly defines America - communal anguish - I now present a video clip that will allow all of you to sharn in my annoyance in the Asrroglide-free rampaging buttsecks that has been the past week:
Why? Never mind - it just sucks. However, in the spirit of what truly defines America - communal anguish - I now present a video clip that will allow all of you to sharn in my annoyance in the Asrroglide-free rampaging buttsecks that has been the past week:
That's right, ladies - despite what people say in the truly politically correct vein, physical attractiveness IS an important part of everyday life - and those who say differently are liars, deluding themselves (and you) or simply trying to make you feel better so they can get something from you, out of you, or into you. Guys - if you're not dating or married to someone who looks like this - you probably won't be, and if you are, enjoy it, because as soon as she gets the chance, she's leaving you with a lot of your finances and possessions, so she can be vigorously serviced by someone younger, more virile and more physically attractive that you've ever been, even in your best daydreams or fantasies!
Now, I'll go clean up around the place, and take out the garbage. I'll probably put a comedy on later.
Laughter. This is a good thing.
Monday, January 21, 2008
And now, for something completely different...
...than one would expect for a person of color to post on Martin Luther King's birthday.
Yeah. This is from the animated MTV series Daria, and one of the most celebrated episodes ever - Quinn The Brain. I've always liked to think that this moment from the show proves two major plot points that many people don't like to think about (well, the ones who are in the 'Daria's an unattractive girl, and we wish people woukd stop portraying her in that manner!' camp):
1. Daria is an attractive girl who could EASILY compete with her younger sister Quinn in terms of looks, popularity and just having herself a slobbering he-harem of guys at her beck and call. Let's be honest - Daria in Quinn's day uniform? She'd have the boys begging for her to notice that they exist!
2. Several seconds after Daria walked past Quinn's room like this, and Quinn heard their dad call out those fateful words ("Daria, your dates are here!") Quinn relented her poser, pseudo-intellectual phase. She knows which side her bread's buttered on... and more importantly - who has her own butterfly knife.
3. The events of Quinn The Brain are canon. No disputing them because of the plot, and unlike episodes like Depth Takes A Holiday or Daria!, there's no disputing them because, well, the writers may have been smoking a couple of blunts loaded up with B.C. bud while working that word processor. (Yes, I know I said two - but, then again, that's just me.)
Finally, IMHO, Daria's cuter than Quinn - and from fanfic, Quinn's a screamer while Daria's a breather. Advantage - Daria.
Of course, your results and perversions may vary - but then again, isn't that what today is all about? (Okay, not really, but if you can't piss people off slightly during a national holiday that many people are STILL annoyed about (and many more are, but are afraid to mention it aloud for fear of, well, whatever they're afraid of happening to them) - then when CAN you piss them off?
Just remember, kids - it's always better to be pissed off... than pissed on.
Happy MLK, Jr.Day, everyone.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Sometimes, I really wish that I COULD go insane...
Well. My younger brother went through outpatient surgery on Tuesday for a torn rotator cuff (I think that's what the doc said) in his left shoulder. They got ride of bone spurs and some other things, also, and then, hooked him up with a self-medicating pump. Oh, yeah. From what I've seen before, he's in real pain.
My most painful part of the episode is when, listening to him talk to the intake clerk, as to HOW he was hurt. Apparently, on his job (he's a teaching assistant at one of the local high schools) he and several other people were trying to catch a bat, and in the process of dealing with The Dark Knight, hurt his shoulder. Of course, Workman's Comp is covering everything.
This is where I get semi-snarky. Oh, and trust me when I say that I'm not bitter - I'm just PISSED OFF!
We now enter the Wayback Machine and head back to Early June of 1998. I'm at work (I was a TV producer at a non-profit here, behind the Corn Curtain). It's after five on a Friday afternoon, and believe me - I wouldn't be here, except for the fact that Commander McBragg ( not his real name - the Executive Director of the non-profit I worked for) made it very clear that we were to finish up the commercials for his own personal radio show. Dilbert (my boss - not real name), my boss, wants to leave, so he takes off a few minutes early.
This is where the 'you know, you were so STUPID!' sign should have lit up. I should have left as he did (after all, he's the boss, and if things aren't finished, well, feces do follow the naural incline of highly-elevated rock formations as gravity allows, correct?) No... I'm trying to be a good worker. Just as I finish up, I get bitten on the inner right ankle by a spider.
Peter Parker gets bitten by a spider, he becomes the Number Three superhero of all time, and the signature hero of Marvel Comics (not to mention the 'modern take' on superheroes started in the 1960's)... do I even have to mention the hot redhead? I get bitten by a spider, and well, let's just say that the last decade of my life has been, with a few minor moments otherwise... unpleasant.
Long story short. I couldn't work any longer at the job (after suffering for thirteen months trying to continue, getting NO medical assistance from the company and visibly getting worse - I should have made them fire me), I get NO assistance from the company or Workman's Comp (I'll write a movie on that one day) and basically, the world turns its collective back on me.
Lawyers? HAH! Not a one of them has been a bit of help! Yes, I know the correct quotation from Shakespheare, and oh, when he says that you were never your own man since, he speaks the Truth of the Ages.
I've never met a lawyer that I've liked. Perhaps it's just prejudice based on my own experiences, but the more I've experienced The Law and it's warrior-priests- and -priestesses, the more I agree with William W. Johnstone's character of Ben Raines. Also, the more I've experienced Lawyers, the more I laugh at the collective fantasies of law shows on television... especially lawyers that are driven to help people, and who (while wanting to make more than a decent living - a laudable goal) are less about making money and more about actually helping people who need it by acting as their guides and protectors through that which we know as The Legal Process. Tell me something - when you graduate from law school and pass the bar, do they take your soul out of your body and implant a demon within, the way they do in the Buffyverse? It would explain the last decade...
Of course, there was one exception. That guy helped me when there was absolutely no reason for him to, and there was no profit in it for him. To him, and the few lawyers that actually bring honor to a profession sorely in need of same... thank you.
The rest of you counselors can go fuck yourselves. Bit of a change from fucking over the rest of Humanity, and the occasional pig, goat, sheep or uncle that you occasionally indulge in.
Back on track. Aparently, in Peoria, Illinois, catching bats is part of the stated job duties of a teaching assistant, because Workman's Comp covers it, but if you're a TV producer and you get bitten by a brown recluse spider while at your desk doing the duties that the top man in the organization specifically stated you were supposed to complete - and that you otherwise wouldn't have been there to BE bitten in the first place - you're not entitled to compensation, because your job description doesn't cover being in places where you could encounter a poisonous spider.
For one moment, let's overlook the passage in my employment contract that I laughing referred to as the KKK - 'the Kunta Kinte Klause' - because it specifically states that your supervisors can ask you to perform any duties outside your normal job description as they may reqire. Instead, let's look at a partial list of duties that I performed as a producer for the non-profit I worked for as a TV producer:
* event videography, where I covered minority-based talent shows for long periods of time (say 7-10+ hours) in a park during late summer. Poisonous insects, angry attendees, gangbangers, sweltering heat, and basically standing still for hours while pointing a camera at people who only THINK that they're talented (although a few good acts do appear sporadically).
* video surveillance, in wwhich I was ordered, over the course of several days, to videotape the renovation of a recretion area in order to ensure that EEOC regulations were being carried out in that minority workers were being employed on the site.
* The (thankfully nixed) idea my immediate supervisor had of doing a story on drugs, with our filming actual drug deals taking place.
So, naturally, given the above, being bitten by a spider is MY fault.
Sometimes, over the past decade, I've been able to understand those shooters who go into workplaces and shoot the bosses. I DON'T condone it by any means whatsoever... but after almost ten years of advancing lymphedema, lower legs swollen up to the size of a Hollywood starlet's waist, lots and lots of pain, people looking down their noses at me AND with the news that TPTB deemed my brother's bat-catching worthy of medical care but being bitten by a poisonous spider while typing at my desk isn't... yeah. I can understand.
I guess I SHOULD be thankful. In a conversation that I had with the insurance adjuster, an unpleasant woman named 'Uncaring Insurance Adjustor Bitch', she mentioned that I was not to be compensated because 'even though I was injured ON the job, I was not injured BECAUSE of the job. Flabbergasted, I asked, 'Let's change things around. Let's say that - instead of being bitten by a poisonous spider, I was at my desk, doing my job, and someone came in and shot me. Would you compensate me then?"
Her answer: "No. We wouldn't."
The Law is horrible because of people like her - and Arctic Thigh Sweats, the Arbitrater for the Workman's Comp commission here in Peoria, who made the comment just before my drumhead WC trial "You're offered $10,000. I think it's a good deal, your lawyer thinks it's a good deal - do you think that you know more about it than us?"
Well, considering that I wasn't looking for money (aside for lawyer's fees) but instead wanted my medical bills paid and medical care provided to help me get back to work... yeah. Hey, Jackass and Jerkoff, my (laughs hysterically) 'lawyers', were only in it for the money, too - and then, threw the case last January.
A former friend phrased it perfectly: 'The Law, under normal circumstances, is not designed to serve the people who abide by it."
Oh, yeah. Commander McBragg - the Director? Annoying and morally unclean on two counts:
(a.) In the thirteen months between the injury and my leaving, he never even once asked 'How are you? Are you okay?'
(b.) A little over a year before I was hurt, he did an interview on the TV show I produced for his company, and he talked about his time in the Marine Corps. He mentioned about not being treated well, and how he promised himself that, someday, if he were in thesame position, he wouldn't treat his people the same way he was treated.
You know, lie to other people if you have to. If you must. If you feel that you can get away with it.
However... please don't lie to yourself. I mean, if you take a blood oath (which is what he did, in his own phrasing) and then go back on it... just because you don't like someone. That's when they lose respect for you. I mean, look - I'm a dick. I freely admit that - but I honor my word. (That's left me high and dry on a couple of occasions, but your word is your word.) If you don't want to go back on your word, then don't give it - but if you do, you can't take it back 'because I don't like you as a person!' Watch The American President, and check out President Shepard's speech on defending free speech. America isn't a great country because - how did Kennedy say it? - we do things not because they are easy, but because they are hard. It's not easy to help someone who you don't like, and yet you know it's the right thing to do. Hey - I'll think you're crazy in some instances... but I'll respect you as a person - and when you're in the soup, I'll be there for you.
Do I even have to being up the issue of a Marine that doesn't keep his word? Do I really need to even go there?
And, returning back to Earth orbit of this post, my brother's back home. He's doing better; he's able to eat not, and he's managing the pain better, as well.
As for me... somehow, there's still a part of me that thinks that things will someday get better.
Of course, the rest of me looks at that other part and bluntly informs it that a belief such as that - or Anne Frank's belief that people really are good at heart - are in fact certain indicators of a spiritual immaturity that the perpetual bitch-slapping seminiar that we call Real Life will rectify in due course.
I really need a piece of sweet potato pie right about now... or maybe some steak fries...
Peanut butter sandwiches and beer. My idea of comfort food for dudes since college. That's what I could use, right about now.
A blow job wouldn't hurt, either. After the sandwiches and beer, though. One must maintain a healthy sense of priorities.
End of rant.
P.S. - Went back and changed the names of the guilty, at the advice of someone smarter than me. Allowed me to add a touch more snark to the post. Thanks, old boy.
My most painful part of the episode is when, listening to him talk to the intake clerk, as to HOW he was hurt. Apparently, on his job (he's a teaching assistant at one of the local high schools) he and several other people were trying to catch a bat, and in the process of dealing with The Dark Knight, hurt his shoulder. Of course, Workman's Comp is covering everything.
This is where I get semi-snarky. Oh, and trust me when I say that I'm not bitter - I'm just PISSED OFF!
We now enter the Wayback Machine and head back to Early June of 1998. I'm at work (I was a TV producer at a non-profit here, behind the Corn Curtain). It's after five on a Friday afternoon, and believe me - I wouldn't be here, except for the fact that Commander McBragg ( not his real name - the Executive Director of the non-profit I worked for) made it very clear that we were to finish up the commercials for his own personal radio show. Dilbert (my boss - not real name), my boss, wants to leave, so he takes off a few minutes early.
This is where the 'you know, you were so STUPID!' sign should have lit up. I should have left as he did (after all, he's the boss, and if things aren't finished, well, feces do follow the naural incline of highly-elevated rock formations as gravity allows, correct?) No... I'm trying to be a good worker. Just as I finish up, I get bitten on the inner right ankle by a spider.
Peter Parker gets bitten by a spider, he becomes the Number Three superhero of all time, and the signature hero of Marvel Comics (not to mention the 'modern take' on superheroes started in the 1960's)... do I even have to mention the hot redhead? I get bitten by a spider, and well, let's just say that the last decade of my life has been, with a few minor moments otherwise... unpleasant.
Long story short. I couldn't work any longer at the job (after suffering for thirteen months trying to continue, getting NO medical assistance from the company and visibly getting worse - I should have made them fire me), I get NO assistance from the company or Workman's Comp (I'll write a movie on that one day) and basically, the world turns its collective back on me.
Lawyers? HAH! Not a one of them has been a bit of help! Yes, I know the correct quotation from Shakespheare, and oh, when he says that you were never your own man since, he speaks the Truth of the Ages.
I've never met a lawyer that I've liked. Perhaps it's just prejudice based on my own experiences, but the more I've experienced The Law and it's warrior-priests- and -priestesses, the more I agree with William W. Johnstone's character of Ben Raines. Also, the more I've experienced Lawyers, the more I laugh at the collective fantasies of law shows on television... especially lawyers that are driven to help people, and who (while wanting to make more than a decent living - a laudable goal) are less about making money and more about actually helping people who need it by acting as their guides and protectors through that which we know as The Legal Process. Tell me something - when you graduate from law school and pass the bar, do they take your soul out of your body and implant a demon within, the way they do in the Buffyverse? It would explain the last decade...
Of course, there was one exception. That guy helped me when there was absolutely no reason for him to, and there was no profit in it for him. To him, and the few lawyers that actually bring honor to a profession sorely in need of same... thank you.
The rest of you counselors can go fuck yourselves. Bit of a change from fucking over the rest of Humanity, and the occasional pig, goat, sheep or uncle that you occasionally indulge in.
Back on track. Aparently, in Peoria, Illinois, catching bats is part of the stated job duties of a teaching assistant, because Workman's Comp covers it, but if you're a TV producer and you get bitten by a brown recluse spider while at your desk doing the duties that the top man in the organization specifically stated you were supposed to complete - and that you otherwise wouldn't have been there to BE bitten in the first place - you're not entitled to compensation, because your job description doesn't cover being in places where you could encounter a poisonous spider.
For one moment, let's overlook the passage in my employment contract that I laughing referred to as the KKK - 'the Kunta Kinte Klause' - because it specifically states that your supervisors can ask you to perform any duties outside your normal job description as they may reqire. Instead, let's look at a partial list of duties that I performed as a producer for the non-profit I worked for as a TV producer:
* event videography, where I covered minority-based talent shows for long periods of time (say 7-10+ hours) in a park during late summer. Poisonous insects, angry attendees, gangbangers, sweltering heat, and basically standing still for hours while pointing a camera at people who only THINK that they're talented (although a few good acts do appear sporadically).
* video surveillance, in wwhich I was ordered, over the course of several days, to videotape the renovation of a recretion area in order to ensure that EEOC regulations were being carried out in that minority workers were being employed on the site.
* The (thankfully nixed) idea my immediate supervisor had of doing a story on drugs, with our filming actual drug deals taking place.
So, naturally, given the above, being bitten by a spider is MY fault.
Sometimes, over the past decade, I've been able to understand those shooters who go into workplaces and shoot the bosses. I DON'T condone it by any means whatsoever... but after almost ten years of advancing lymphedema, lower legs swollen up to the size of a Hollywood starlet's waist, lots and lots of pain, people looking down their noses at me AND with the news that TPTB deemed my brother's bat-catching worthy of medical care but being bitten by a poisonous spider while typing at my desk isn't... yeah. I can understand.
I guess I SHOULD be thankful. In a conversation that I had with the insurance adjuster, an unpleasant woman named 'Uncaring Insurance Adjustor Bitch', she mentioned that I was not to be compensated because 'even though I was injured ON the job, I was not injured BECAUSE of the job. Flabbergasted, I asked, 'Let's change things around. Let's say that - instead of being bitten by a poisonous spider, I was at my desk, doing my job, and someone came in and shot me. Would you compensate me then?"
Her answer: "No. We wouldn't."
The Law is horrible because of people like her - and Arctic Thigh Sweats, the Arbitrater for the Workman's Comp commission here in Peoria, who made the comment just before my drumhead WC trial "You're offered $10,000. I think it's a good deal, your lawyer thinks it's a good deal - do you think that you know more about it than us?"
Well, considering that I wasn't looking for money (aside for lawyer's fees) but instead wanted my medical bills paid and medical care provided to help me get back to work... yeah. Hey, Jackass and Jerkoff, my (laughs hysterically) 'lawyers', were only in it for the money, too - and then, threw the case last January.
A former friend phrased it perfectly: 'The Law, under normal circumstances, is not designed to serve the people who abide by it."
Oh, yeah. Commander McBragg - the Director? Annoying and morally unclean on two counts:
(a.) In the thirteen months between the injury and my leaving, he never even once asked 'How are you? Are you okay?'
(b.) A little over a year before I was hurt, he did an interview on the TV show I produced for his company, and he talked about his time in the Marine Corps. He mentioned about not being treated well, and how he promised himself that, someday, if he were in thesame position, he wouldn't treat his people the same way he was treated.
You know, lie to other people if you have to. If you must. If you feel that you can get away with it.
However... please don't lie to yourself. I mean, if you take a blood oath (which is what he did, in his own phrasing) and then go back on it... just because you don't like someone. That's when they lose respect for you. I mean, look - I'm a dick. I freely admit that - but I honor my word. (That's left me high and dry on a couple of occasions, but your word is your word.) If you don't want to go back on your word, then don't give it - but if you do, you can't take it back 'because I don't like you as a person!' Watch The American President, and check out President Shepard's speech on defending free speech. America isn't a great country because - how did Kennedy say it? - we do things not because they are easy, but because they are hard. It's not easy to help someone who you don't like, and yet you know it's the right thing to do. Hey - I'll think you're crazy in some instances... but I'll respect you as a person - and when you're in the soup, I'll be there for you.
Do I even have to being up the issue of a Marine that doesn't keep his word? Do I really need to even go there?
And, returning back to Earth orbit of this post, my brother's back home. He's doing better; he's able to eat not, and he's managing the pain better, as well.
As for me... somehow, there's still a part of me that thinks that things will someday get better.
Of course, the rest of me looks at that other part and bluntly informs it that a belief such as that - or Anne Frank's belief that people really are good at heart - are in fact certain indicators of a spiritual immaturity that the perpetual bitch-slapping seminiar that we call Real Life will rectify in due course.
I really need a piece of sweet potato pie right about now... or maybe some steak fries...
Peanut butter sandwiches and beer. My idea of comfort food for dudes since college. That's what I could use, right about now.
A blow job wouldn't hurt, either. After the sandwiches and beer, though. One must maintain a healthy sense of priorities.
End of rant.
P.S. - Went back and changed the names of the guilty, at the advice of someone smarter than me. Allowed me to add a touch more snark to the post. Thanks, old boy.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
I hate the really weird dreams...
I really do. Woke up at just before six this morning, because I'd ridden out a TRULY weird one; I'd dreamed that I'd just watched the sequel to the 1984 cult classic Red Dawn, entitled Red Twilight. (Yes, I know that there's no such thing. It was a dream, remember?) In this one, the Spetznaz officer dispatched to Calumet, Colorado to ferret out the Wolverines had not died after being shot be Patrick Swayze's character, but survived to be a true pain in the ass to not only the people of the area, but to the sympathizers and collarborators within the Red Army and assisting forces' ranks, as well.
There was a sequence in the film (dream) where a Russian general was sympathetic to the resistance; the Hunter (that's how he referred to himself in the first film) laid a vicious trap for him and his friends that - man, I didn't know you could shoot so many people so many ways... remarkably, the General and his aide were still alive (even more amazing, the aide was only slightly wounded). In order to keep the General from being tortured and forced to give up information, the aide followed the General's orders and shot him just as the Hunter got to him; he then turned the gun on himself, but found that he'd used the last round on the General. The Hunter was pissed like you wouldn't believe; he shot up the General's body, then turned to the aide and said, "But you won't die anywhere near as easily..."
The way he said it made me almost lose control of my bladder functions. This guy was 'Anthony-class' scary - Perkins in Psycho, or Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs... you take your pick.
The next scene opened with the aide being forced to run his left arm through this wall-mounted device that was a combination of grinding wheels that crushed down on and stung the victim's arm. The aide (poor man) had on his face a look of someone who only wants to be allowed to die, so the pain and humiliation will finally be over, as the Hunter stood next to him and - simply by speaking to him - forced him to run his arm through the evil device over, and over, and over. Did I forget to mention that, about fifteen seconds into that scene, the titles on-screen read 'Five months later...?'
The way the Hunter carried himself through the scene was in a manner similar to the way Hopkins talked to Jodie Foster... if he wanted, he could have had her do anything he wanted to - or with - her. It was scary to watch, on a level of psychological horror delving into depths beyond the failed propaganda of the first film and into a more mature level of terror akin to Laurence Olivier's performance in Marathon Man. I mean, this guy was playing the role with a calmness and an absolute certainty in that what he was doing was so right for his cause - and the way he inspired others into that, as well - that anything could be done to anyone... as long as it advanced the State's goals.
The scene continued; he finally left the room, but not before telling the guy that no matter what happened, no matter who came in the room, that he had better not take his arm out of the machine - let alone try to escape - until he returned. The Hunter exits, leaving a pair of guards outside the door, and about five minutes or so later - the aide hears the sound of gunfire! He looks outside to see ragged American youth - obviously, teens inspired by the 'Wolverines' - cutting down Soviet soldiers and guards; less than a minute later, he ducks as bullets tear through the wall and the death screams of the guards are heard, and several of the American resistance fighters come into the room! Almost pitiful in his state, tears of relief flow down the aide's face as the resistance fighters quickly get him out of the machine and take him to the door... where the Hunter is waiting, in the outer office, with the other 'resistance members'.
It was all a giant mindfuck. Killing all of those soldiers and guards, the whole thing - just to mess with his mind. They're all young Americans, yes, but so mindblanked and indoctrinated that they're totally into the Hunter's plans... and just to show how into it they are, the Hunter brings an especially pretty little brunette forward who extends her hand, and as the aide watches, the Hunter takes a pair of garden shears and snips off her ring finger, so it will appear that she's been 'tortured' and will be willingly accepted by the true resistance forces. The Hunter, tells him, 'I asked you not to leave that room, didn't I..." He walks away, and the 'resistance fighters' literally tear the man apart with their bare hands, his screams of horror filling the area.
Man. Why can't I have dreams with happier things? Being able to fly... diving into a perfectly blue lage and swimming about, diving deep within and just enjoying myself... blow jobs by a couple of young women who are experts in the procedure? They say that dreams are a reflection of your deepest desires and thoughts... well, what the hell does this say about me?
Besides the fact that I wish that Red Dawn had been a far better film, of course...
There was a sequence in the film (dream) where a Russian general was sympathetic to the resistance; the Hunter (that's how he referred to himself in the first film) laid a vicious trap for him and his friends that - man, I didn't know you could shoot so many people so many ways... remarkably, the General and his aide were still alive (even more amazing, the aide was only slightly wounded). In order to keep the General from being tortured and forced to give up information, the aide followed the General's orders and shot him just as the Hunter got to him; he then turned the gun on himself, but found that he'd used the last round on the General. The Hunter was pissed like you wouldn't believe; he shot up the General's body, then turned to the aide and said, "But you won't die anywhere near as easily..."
The way he said it made me almost lose control of my bladder functions. This guy was 'Anthony-class' scary - Perkins in Psycho, or Hopkins in The Silence of the Lambs... you take your pick.
The next scene opened with the aide being forced to run his left arm through this wall-mounted device that was a combination of grinding wheels that crushed down on and stung the victim's arm. The aide (poor man) had on his face a look of someone who only wants to be allowed to die, so the pain and humiliation will finally be over, as the Hunter stood next to him and - simply by speaking to him - forced him to run his arm through the evil device over, and over, and over. Did I forget to mention that, about fifteen seconds into that scene, the titles on-screen read 'Five months later...?'
The way the Hunter carried himself through the scene was in a manner similar to the way Hopkins talked to Jodie Foster... if he wanted, he could have had her do anything he wanted to - or with - her. It was scary to watch, on a level of psychological horror delving into depths beyond the failed propaganda of the first film and into a more mature level of terror akin to Laurence Olivier's performance in Marathon Man. I mean, this guy was playing the role with a calmness and an absolute certainty in that what he was doing was so right for his cause - and the way he inspired others into that, as well - that anything could be done to anyone... as long as it advanced the State's goals.
The scene continued; he finally left the room, but not before telling the guy that no matter what happened, no matter who came in the room, that he had better not take his arm out of the machine - let alone try to escape - until he returned. The Hunter exits, leaving a pair of guards outside the door, and about five minutes or so later - the aide hears the sound of gunfire! He looks outside to see ragged American youth - obviously, teens inspired by the 'Wolverines' - cutting down Soviet soldiers and guards; less than a minute later, he ducks as bullets tear through the wall and the death screams of the guards are heard, and several of the American resistance fighters come into the room! Almost pitiful in his state, tears of relief flow down the aide's face as the resistance fighters quickly get him out of the machine and take him to the door... where the Hunter is waiting, in the outer office, with the other 'resistance members'.
It was all a giant mindfuck. Killing all of those soldiers and guards, the whole thing - just to mess with his mind. They're all young Americans, yes, but so mindblanked and indoctrinated that they're totally into the Hunter's plans... and just to show how into it they are, the Hunter brings an especially pretty little brunette forward who extends her hand, and as the aide watches, the Hunter takes a pair of garden shears and snips off her ring finger, so it will appear that she's been 'tortured' and will be willingly accepted by the true resistance forces. The Hunter, tells him, 'I asked you not to leave that room, didn't I..." He walks away, and the 'resistance fighters' literally tear the man apart with their bare hands, his screams of horror filling the area.
Man. Why can't I have dreams with happier things? Being able to fly... diving into a perfectly blue lage and swimming about, diving deep within and just enjoying myself... blow jobs by a couple of young women who are experts in the procedure? They say that dreams are a reflection of your deepest desires and thoughts... well, what the hell does this say about me?
Besides the fact that I wish that Red Dawn had been a far better film, of course...
Friday, January 11, 2008
A gratuitous shout-out to 'Heroes' - the Season Two opener
Sylar - and lots of beach bunnies.What more can you ask for?
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Proof that I can be a sick bastard, Exhibit A
So, I'm watching Alvin and the Chipmunks (proof in and of itself that I'm a sick bastard) and we come to the scene where the boys sing their song Witch Doctor. I'm looking at the boys sing, I'm checking out the serious female action in the crowd (cue flashback to the 1980's and the song Money For Nothing), and something I remember that Marilyn Manson said on Politically Incorrect during the whole 'Oh, no! The President got a blow job!' fiasco flashed into my mind...
"Blow jobs are like autographs and handshakes - when you're a celebrity, it's part of the job."
He did, of course, mean 'recieving'. However, there IS an interesting story that was going around in the 1980's about a certain all-girl band and their shenanigans with a DJ in the booth one night when they stopped in to promote their latest album... there's also a story about a certain attractive, auburn-haired former CBS reporter who now works for CNBC, and how she was caught by another former CBS reporter (who apparently doesn't think Paris Hilton - another fond and skilled advocate of the practice - worthy of being reported on) when the former and her boss slipped into the latter's office for a quick examination of her oral persuasion abilities when the latter (who was supposed to be on vacation) popped into her office and got a big surprise. What I don't understand is why a three-way didn't ensue - I mean, they're both babes, and hey - unless you're a scientist working with alien DNA, 'experimentation' is a good thing...
Ah, if only like was like Cinemax Late Night - and if your life is anything of that sort (a.) enjoy it immensely while it lasts, (b.) for the love of God, don't tell anybody! They'll spoil it for you, accidentally or on purpose, (c.) use protection, and (d.) as Dennis Miller wisely put it, send me a broadcast-quality copy of the raw footage of your better romps on DVD!
Back on track. Chipmunk sex on the road while on tour. Gives the movie Almost Famous an entirely new spin, doesn't it?
"Blow jobs are like autographs and handshakes - when you're a celebrity, it's part of the job."
He did, of course, mean 'recieving'. However, there IS an interesting story that was going around in the 1980's about a certain all-girl band and their shenanigans with a DJ in the booth one night when they stopped in to promote their latest album... there's also a story about a certain attractive, auburn-haired former CBS reporter who now works for CNBC, and how she was caught by another former CBS reporter (who apparently doesn't think Paris Hilton - another fond and skilled advocate of the practice - worthy of being reported on) when the former and her boss slipped into the latter's office for a quick examination of her oral persuasion abilities when the latter (who was supposed to be on vacation) popped into her office and got a big surprise. What I don't understand is why a three-way didn't ensue - I mean, they're both babes, and hey - unless you're a scientist working with alien DNA, 'experimentation' is a good thing...
Ah, if only like was like Cinemax Late Night - and if your life is anything of that sort (a.) enjoy it immensely while it lasts, (b.) for the love of God, don't tell anybody! They'll spoil it for you, accidentally or on purpose, (c.) use protection, and (d.) as Dennis Miller wisely put it, send me a broadcast-quality copy of the raw footage of your better romps on DVD!
Back on track. Chipmunk sex on the road while on tour. Gives the movie Almost Famous an entirely new spin, doesn't it?
Thoughts from the doctor's office
Well, it's been a slow week. If anyone has any ideas on how I can generate a few hundred thousand dollars, let me know. I'd like to have that kind of money so I can travel for a couple of years and just travel about, seeing things and having a little pleasant life-experience.
No, I am not planning on visiting the Bunny Ranch. Not that there's anything wrong with that at all. I'd just like to get into a vehicle, pack in a few things (a few changes of clothes, my laptop, a solar battery, my shotgun, a pistol, my sleeping bag, a decent radio with a NOAA weather setting, a couple of blankets and a few personal items) and just drive off. Oh, and a cell phone with a little battery-powered reserve power cell. Turned off, of course, but there if I want to contact someone. There's 'getting away from it all' and then, there's stupid.
Anyway, today I took Miss Cobra (long story on that name; it goes back to the mid-1970's and how everyone and his brother had a CB 'handle'. Bore you with that some other time.) to the doctor's office today; she had an appointment. Always glad to help Miss Cobra out; she's a family friend for as far back as I can remember, and one of the few reasons I wouldn't immolate this city, were I to have the chance.
Why am I bringing this up? Well, while sitting there and reading a Tom Clancy doorstop of a novel (thanks for that phrase, CINCGREEN!), I was slightly bored by the low level of conversation and cute girls in the area, and I drifted off...
Dream snippet time. I dreamed that I was back at the old house that I grew up in. (P.S. my old address growing up? 1313. That's a conversation starter, folks.) I'n walking down the hall of the second floor towards my parents room, when I hear a female voice coming out of the linen closet; as I get up close, I notice that it's Traylor Howard (the actress from Monk, on the USA Network) and she's on the phone with someone. She smiles at me, I nod and start to pass by when she holds hout her hand to me, I take it, and as she continues on with that conversation, a very interesting session of 'handsie' begins to ensue...
I tell you, I had no idea that holding hands could be so... arousing. Nothing more, nothing less, and I have no idea why I would have a dream about that actress. I mean, I certainly didn't miss an episode of Boston Common in its first season, back in 1995 on NBC; she was cute as a button, and I must admit I like that look...
As usual, this is the portion of the regularly-scheduled program in which I drop off the grid and start talking about things that I really have no real understanding of.
You guessed it in one. Women.
Why is it that a hell of a lot of guys (and a hell of a lot of the scandal sheets, internet sites, magazines, TV shows, etc. that the collective stream o'lemmings gravitates to as if by instinct) have this idea that once a woman hits a seemingly predetermined age, she's no longer attractive or sexually desirable (or more to the point, shouldn't present herself in this fashion) - and mre to the point, why to a hell of a lot of women buy into this crapshoot? Case in point - Miss Traylor. Hey - I like the pixie look. I like the fact that she's not 'a classic Hollywood beauty'. I like it that (as a friend would always say) 'that she's a cutie'? I certainly love the fact that she's actually having a real meal - a burger, some sort of salad and a slice of watermelon. (Although I REALLY... cannot... stand... watermelon. However, that's another story for another day.) I like the fact that she doesn't have breasts with the mass to possibly retain their own gravity and magnetic fields and atmosphere. I understand that some science schmuck mentioned long ago that there's a genetic thing about men being attracted to big breasts. I have no problem with that. I especially have no problem with when I think of the former CNBC anchor Liz Claman; during 2006 and 2007, I was able to gain some small idea of what a friend who was into economics and the finance sector said on occasion by watching Morning Call religiously. Of course, redheads are always a big draw for me, anyway...
Back on track. Back when I was a freshman in high school, I had an afterschool job cleaning rooms at my school. (Actual work for a kid. Not a bad idea.) The guy who I worked with was a Navy vet named Ken, and he would tell me stories and give me advice (like older guys should give the younger ones. It's because of him that I've always wanted to visit Australia). One of the things that he said that I've always remembered was about breasts: 'If it's more than a mouthful, it's a waste.' Sage advice.
I mention this because - in our twisted society - we have this perverse fascination with large breasts that (pardon the pun) cuts both ways; it's as if we want woman to have large breasts and act as if small-breasted women are somehow... deficent - and yet, we objectify large-breasted women at the cost of their intellectual capacity. Worse, regardless of bust size, once women reach that 'predetermined (and yet unspoken) age'... they're supposed to delete any overt sexuality that they may project and... what? disappear off the landscape in favor of the 'younger, hotter models'?
I'm surprised more women don't go temporarily insane... or, considering the mass numbers of women who submit to the myriad of options that cosmetic surgery affords (or at least consider seriously enough that they actively research their options), perhaps they are. Now, I'm not saying that cosmetic surgery is wrong, or that having large breasts is wrong. If you're a guy and that's what you prefer, knock yourself out and go for it - but please, remember (as Amy from About A Girl told her roommates) that there's usually a person attached to those breasts. If you're a woman, large- or small-breasted, please stop buying into the fallacy that somehow, on any level, your worth to men is directionally proportional to your bust size, your intellectual capacity is directly inverse to said bust size and that somehow, your own self-worth is in any way connected at all to that!
Of course, women are saying right about now, "Well, what the hell do YOU know about it? You're not in our shoes, you have no idea how it feels to have men staring at your chest as if you're some side-show freak because you have a bustline that stretches out sweaters, or they look at you and say, 'if you didn't have long hair, I wouldn't be able to tell that you were a girl!" You're right. I don't know - and I can't understand.
However, as I told a young woman long ago: "You're right. I don't know anything about you. All I know about you is what you let me see." Self-worth begins with you, people. If you're proud of who you are - as a whole - then that one part of your anatomy won't matter to you and the people whose opinions matter to you...and it certainly won't matter to the person who shares their life and their love with you. They care for you, and your body is a bonus. That being said, if you're happy with who you are and you simply want to do something to improve uupon yourself... then cosmetic surgery is a viable option. Why? Because now, it's simply you wanting to give yourself a new look so as to present yourself in what you feel is an even better manner - not you trying to gain confirmation of your own inner worth from others through changing your exterior. There is a difference.
Oh, yeah. If anyone out there knows where I can get a hold of one of those old-school exercise bikes - you know, the metal ones with the upward-curving handlebars and the nice, sturdy foot pedals, and at a reasonable price - let me know. We can all use a change of the exterior, and back in college, I really liked going over to the Student Rec Center every day and riding five miles or so on the bikes.
No, I am not planning on visiting the Bunny Ranch. Not that there's anything wrong with that at all. I'd just like to get into a vehicle, pack in a few things (a few changes of clothes, my laptop, a solar battery, my shotgun, a pistol, my sleeping bag, a decent radio with a NOAA weather setting, a couple of blankets and a few personal items) and just drive off. Oh, and a cell phone with a little battery-powered reserve power cell. Turned off, of course, but there if I want to contact someone. There's 'getting away from it all' and then, there's stupid.
Anyway, today I took Miss Cobra (long story on that name; it goes back to the mid-1970's and how everyone and his brother had a CB 'handle'. Bore you with that some other time.) to the doctor's office today; she had an appointment. Always glad to help Miss Cobra out; she's a family friend for as far back as I can remember, and one of the few reasons I wouldn't immolate this city, were I to have the chance.
Why am I bringing this up? Well, while sitting there and reading a Tom Clancy doorstop of a novel (thanks for that phrase, CINCGREEN!), I was slightly bored by the low level of conversation and cute girls in the area, and I drifted off...
Dream snippet time. I dreamed that I was back at the old house that I grew up in. (P.S. my old address growing up? 1313. That's a conversation starter, folks.) I'n walking down the hall of the second floor towards my parents room, when I hear a female voice coming out of the linen closet; as I get up close, I notice that it's Traylor Howard (the actress from Monk, on the USA Network) and she's on the phone with someone. She smiles at me, I nod and start to pass by when she holds hout her hand to me, I take it, and as she continues on with that conversation, a very interesting session of 'handsie' begins to ensue...
I tell you, I had no idea that holding hands could be so... arousing. Nothing more, nothing less, and I have no idea why I would have a dream about that actress. I mean, I certainly didn't miss an episode of Boston Common in its first season, back in 1995 on NBC; she was cute as a button, and I must admit I like that look...
As usual, this is the portion of the regularly-scheduled program in which I drop off the grid and start talking about things that I really have no real understanding of.
You guessed it in one. Women.
Why is it that a hell of a lot of guys (and a hell of a lot of the scandal sheets, internet sites, magazines, TV shows, etc. that the collective stream o'lemmings gravitates to as if by instinct) have this idea that once a woman hits a seemingly predetermined age, she's no longer attractive or sexually desirable (or more to the point, shouldn't present herself in this fashion) - and mre to the point, why to a hell of a lot of women buy into this crapshoot? Case in point - Miss Traylor. Hey - I like the pixie look. I like the fact that she's not 'a classic Hollywood beauty'. I like it that (as a friend would always say) 'that she's a cutie'? I certainly love the fact that she's actually having a real meal - a burger, some sort of salad and a slice of watermelon. (Although I REALLY... cannot... stand... watermelon. However, that's another story for another day.) I like the fact that she doesn't have breasts with the mass to possibly retain their own gravity and magnetic fields and atmosphere. I understand that some science schmuck mentioned long ago that there's a genetic thing about men being attracted to big breasts. I have no problem with that. I especially have no problem with when I think of the former CNBC anchor Liz Claman; during 2006 and 2007, I was able to gain some small idea of what a friend who was into economics and the finance sector said on occasion by watching Morning Call religiously. Of course, redheads are always a big draw for me, anyway...
Back on track. Back when I was a freshman in high school, I had an afterschool job cleaning rooms at my school. (Actual work for a kid. Not a bad idea.) The guy who I worked with was a Navy vet named Ken, and he would tell me stories and give me advice (like older guys should give the younger ones. It's because of him that I've always wanted to visit Australia). One of the things that he said that I've always remembered was about breasts: 'If it's more than a mouthful, it's a waste.' Sage advice.
I mention this because - in our twisted society - we have this perverse fascination with large breasts that (pardon the pun) cuts both ways; it's as if we want woman to have large breasts and act as if small-breasted women are somehow... deficent - and yet, we objectify large-breasted women at the cost of their intellectual capacity. Worse, regardless of bust size, once women reach that 'predetermined (and yet unspoken) age'... they're supposed to delete any overt sexuality that they may project and... what? disappear off the landscape in favor of the 'younger, hotter models'?
I'm surprised more women don't go temporarily insane... or, considering the mass numbers of women who submit to the myriad of options that cosmetic surgery affords (or at least consider seriously enough that they actively research their options), perhaps they are. Now, I'm not saying that cosmetic surgery is wrong, or that having large breasts is wrong. If you're a guy and that's what you prefer, knock yourself out and go for it - but please, remember (as Amy from About A Girl told her roommates) that there's usually a person attached to those breasts. If you're a woman, large- or small-breasted, please stop buying into the fallacy that somehow, on any level, your worth to men is directionally proportional to your bust size, your intellectual capacity is directly inverse to said bust size and that somehow, your own self-worth is in any way connected at all to that!
Of course, women are saying right about now, "Well, what the hell do YOU know about it? You're not in our shoes, you have no idea how it feels to have men staring at your chest as if you're some side-show freak because you have a bustline that stretches out sweaters, or they look at you and say, 'if you didn't have long hair, I wouldn't be able to tell that you were a girl!" You're right. I don't know - and I can't understand.
However, as I told a young woman long ago: "You're right. I don't know anything about you. All I know about you is what you let me see." Self-worth begins with you, people. If you're proud of who you are - as a whole - then that one part of your anatomy won't matter to you and the people whose opinions matter to you...and it certainly won't matter to the person who shares their life and their love with you. They care for you, and your body is a bonus. That being said, if you're happy with who you are and you simply want to do something to improve uupon yourself... then cosmetic surgery is a viable option. Why? Because now, it's simply you wanting to give yourself a new look so as to present yourself in what you feel is an even better manner - not you trying to gain confirmation of your own inner worth from others through changing your exterior. There is a difference.
Oh, yeah. If anyone out there knows where I can get a hold of one of those old-school exercise bikes - you know, the metal ones with the upward-curving handlebars and the nice, sturdy foot pedals, and at a reasonable price - let me know. We can all use a change of the exterior, and back in college, I really liked going over to the Student Rec Center every day and riding five miles or so on the bikes.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
A Cynical Light in the Wilderness Returns...
For you fans of the MTV animated program Daria, which ran from 1997 to 2002 and provided absolute proof of the Snipes Conjecture (named after the actor Wesley Snipes and his line from the film White Men Can't Jump, where he stated, after the good fortune of another character in the film, 'that the sun shines on even a dog's ass sometimes')... in this case, that even a spewing dimensional rift in realiy such as MTV can occasionally have something wonderful or even beneficial issue forth amongst all of the hellish crap.(P.S. - how many seasons of The Real World have there been now, in place of Headbanger's Ball, or MTV Unplugged? I'm still pissed that they killed off Dead at 21 before it hit its stride - and it was getting there - and bitch-slapped a decent parody like 2Gether into oblivion by making the saddest half-hour comedy imaginable out of an interesting telefilm.)
Anyway - there's always been a small, scrappy and resiliant group of fans dedicated to the adventures of OH (Our Heroine, as Daria is known by her fans), and her journey through high school, adolescence and the general crap that comes with being a young woman who recognizes the BS for what it is, and yet, still has to paddle through it all the way to graduation. (Lucky she's had an amiga like Jane Lane to watch her back.) These Daria fans have been responsible for ten years of amazing fan fiction, artwork, essays and just general discussion on the world of Lawndale and its denizens - as well as forming several Internet sites and message boards dedicated to OH and her friends.
However, there's always a point where things seem to get a bit off-track in any fandom. Why? Does it matter - they just do. In this case, however, it led to what's known as 'the Great Daria Fandom Implosion of 2007'. A number of prominent Daria fan sites either shut down operations or (just as bad) stopped accepting fandom contributions, and several prominent members of the fandom either left altogether or distanced themselves. In the wake of this, there was wondering if this meant the end of Daria fandom (as one person famously referenced in an essay on the subject, with the ending of the show in 2002 and no new episodes forthcoming, the fandom has taken on the attributes of a 'cargo cult').
Maybe, however, this was just what the fandom needed.
In the roughly six months since the Implosion, there's been a resurgence of activity in the Daria fandom; a number of new authors have begun to pour new works of fan fiction into the fandom for members to enjoy. (Two new names of note to this effort are Doggieboy, with his 'OH and BFF meets Damnnation Alley - without the mutant bugs' serial fic Apocalyptic Daria, and Legendeld, a writer who's already noted for his prolific writings and his unique manner of writing the majority of his fics in three-parts.) Also, there's the launch of Lawndale Online, a new mega-site dedicated to the fandom. (I really need to set up a small site with my fics and send them a link for fans who want to read my fics. I'm not exactly loving the formatting they're using for fics there. Oh, well. You can't have everything.) Finally, Dariacon Orlando 2008 is fast approaching, and for the Daria fans who attend, either in person or virtually, it should be interesting.
However, in the ashes and out on the cold frontier, deep within dormant, idle machinery... something stirred.
It seems that Outpost Daria - long considered THE site for all things Daria-related, and the body blow that could have signaled the beginning of the end when its owner decided to shut down in May 2007 - may be returning to full operation soon.
Why? How? Doesn't matter. If OD goes back on line, it's a good thing. As the 'first stop for new Daria fans' and the second listed site for the show on the Daria Wikipedia entry, OD was always THE place to find almost anything you wanted on the Internet, including loads and loads of fanfiction you simply couldn't find anywhere else. (The only exception for this was fan works of an adult nature - works listed as 'R' rated or above. No problem. The Sheep's Fluff has a section for such works - Mistress Daria's Dungeon - so those works can be represented as well.)
Let's see if it happens. Outpost Daria was a good thing for the fandom. It can be a good thing again.
Maybe it could add a couple of new things when it returns... I'm liking that 'review of stories' idea of Lawndale Online... maybe adding a co-administrator to take the load off the site owner when RL starts acting like a bitch and starts shoveling on grief or just a need to step back and take a good, long nap - that could be good, too. Another good section to add could be an 'in memoriam' section, with screenshots or mentions of inactive sites (such as Planet Daria, which went down before I came into the fandom), and with the mass amounts of fandom works out thre, maybe a Fandom Database showing charecters created in fanfiction and have sort-of come to life in Lawndale through that fashion.
Whatever the owner feels he can handle.
Now... if we can just get Viacom and MTV off the stick and making Daria webisodes... Daria minis... if someone with the power to say so in the front office would say that even though they can't see the company making any new Daria materials in the forseeable future, but wouldn't be adverse to the idea of fans who wish to show their affection for the program by making new episodes... I'd love to see Apocalyptic Daria in webisode form online somewhere, or The Last Summer, or even a one-shot episode that covers something that SHOULD have been covered in the series itself. Promise in Green would be the perfect one-shot episode for an online Daria fan-made episode.
For right now, though, the news of a possible return of OD is good enough. Let's hope it happens.
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